Or is it border-patrol duty dawn to dusk
This morning they began like a water-glass choir
Multiplied by ten in the birches along the river
Until a robin on the back lawn shoved another off
A square foot of grass and two hummingbirds at the hanging
Basket of fuchsias dive-bombed each other’s head
Now I’m looking in the field guide to see what it says
Is the proper term for birdsong is it calling perhaps
Or something more chest-thumping or military or both
But the guide resorts to voice talk about noncommittal
Ti-dee-di-di and wheep wheep wheep
Not counting the catbird’s come-hither stay-away
Like a melodeon on meth like a gleeful pickpocket
Who suddenly spurts from between three leaves
Leaving all that burbling and cheeping behind
And now that it’s flown in the distance I can hear
Mourning doves reciting The Joy of Grieving
And practicing its advice Give in to your sadness
Let loss wash over you until you’re cleansed
Which seems to be taking approximately forever
Because they haven’t stopped giving in to it yet
Until nearly noon when the July sun clobbers
The whole air from sky high to lying prone
And the silence that ensues is so ungodly loud
It rhymes with the brave new sound of war
AKA stay out of sight leave a lighter footprint
Featuring drones the length of a magpie in flight
Steered only by a microchip the targeted victim
Standing on a rooftop smoking a cigarette
Dozing almost the sun flat on his face
Until late afternoon when the birds start up again
At dusk signaling music’s finale
As night inches up the corkscrewing locust’s branch
And the birds shut down in their inky sleep